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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXX. June, 1847. No. 6.
Table of Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
Boots; Or the Misfortunes of Peter Faber
A Chapter on Eating. Part I
The Loyalist’s Daughter
The Strawberry-Woman
The Islets of the Gulf; Or Rose Budd
Spectral and Supernatural Appearances
The Musician. A Tale Founded upon Fact
Review of New Books
Poetry and Fashion
The Idiot Boy
Youthful Love
Sonnet from Petrarch, on the Death of Laura
Morning Invitation
A Prayer
Lines on Visiting Broad Street Hotel
The Soul’s Search
To Lizzie
To Ianthé
Picture of Tasso
Le Follet
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Drawn by J. Smillie from a sketch by T. Addison Richards.
Engraved by Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie.
FALLS OF TOCCOA.
Graham’s Magazine 1844.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: Painted by J. W. Wright. Engraved by A. L. Dick.
THE HOME BIRD.]
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXX. PHILADELPHIA, June, 1847. No. 6.
* * * * *
“BOOTS;”
OR THE MISFORTUNES OF PETER FABER.
BY JOSEPH C. NEAL.
[Illustration]
It was a lovely autumnal morning. The air was fresh, with just enough of
frost about it to give ruddiness to the cheek and brilliancy to the eye.
The rays of the sun streamed brightly up the street; knockers,
door-plates and bell-handles, beamed with more than usual lustre; while
they who had achieved their breakfasts and had no fear of duns, went,
according to the bias of their musical fancy, either whistling or
singing through the town, as if they had finally dissolved partnership
with care, and had nothing else to do for the remainder of their natural
lives but to be as merry as grigs and as frolicsome as kittens. Every
one, even to the heavy-footed, displayed elasticity of step and buoyancy
of motion. There were some who seemed to have a disposition to dance
from place to place, and evidently found it difficult to refrain from a
pirouette around the corner or a pigeon-wing across the way, in evidence
of the light-heartedness that prevailed within. The atmosphere had a
silent music in it, more delicious than orchestral strains, and none
could resist its charm, who were not insensible in mind and body to the
innocent delight which is thus afforded to the healthful spirit. There
are mornings in this variable climate of ours, more exhilirating than
the wines of the banquet. There are days which seem to be a fête opened
to all the world. The festive hall with its blaze of chandeliers and its
feverish jollity has no pleasure in its joys to equal Nature’s holyday,
which demands no hollow cheek or haggard eye in recompense. Enjoyment
here has no remorse.
No wonder, then, that young men slapped their comrades on the back with
a merry laugh, and dealt in mirthful salutations. Nor could it cause
surprise that old men poked their cronies with a stick, and thought that
it was funny. Ay, there are moments when our frail humanity is
forgotten—when years and sorrow roll away together—when time slackens
its iron hold upon us—when pain, tears, disappointments and contrition
cease to bear down the spirit, and, for a little moment, grant it leave
to sport awhile in pristine gleefulness—when, indeed, we scarcely
recognize our care-worn selves, and have, as it were, brief glimpses of
a new existence.
Still, however, this is a world of violent contrasts, and of painful
incongruities. Some of us may laugh; but while we laugh, let us be
assured of it that there are others who are weeping. It is pleasant all
about you here, within your brief horizon, but the distance may be short
to scenes most sadly different. Smiles are on your brow, as you jostle
through the street, yet your elbow touches him whose heart is torn with
grief. Is there a merry-making in your family—are friends in
congregation there with mirth, and dance and song? How strange to think
that it is scarce a step to the couch of suffering or the chamber of
despair! The air is tremulous perchance with sighs and groans; and
though our joyous strains overwhelm all sorrow’s breathings, yet the
sorrow still exists even when we hear it not.
And so it was on this autumnal morning. While the very air had delight
in it, and while happiness pervaded the atmosphere, there was a little
man who felt it not—poor little man—poor grim little man—poor queer
little man—poor little man disconsolate. Sadness had engrossed the
little man. For him, with no sunshine in his heart, all outward sunshine
was in vain. It had no ray to dispel the thick fogs of gloom that
clouded round his soul; and the gamesome breezes which fluttered his
garments and played around his countenance, as if to provoke a smiling
recognition, met with as little of response as if they had paid
courtship to the floating iceberg, and they passed quickly by, chilled
by the hyperborean contact. The mysterious little man—contradictory in
all his aspects to the order of the day—appeared as he walked toward
the corner of Fifth and Chestnut streets—justice’s peculiar stand,
where “Black Marias” most do congregate, and where his Honor does the
honors to that portion of society who are so unfortunate and so
maladroit as to be caught in their transgressions and to be arrested in
their sins—he appeared, we say, as he approached this awful corner, to
be most assuredly under duresse, as well as an enlistment under general
affliction—a guard of functionaries—a body-guard, though not of honor,
seemed to wait upon him—the grim little man and the queer little man.
There was a hand too—ponderous in weight—austere in knuckle—severe in
fist—resting clutchingly upon the collar of the little man, as if to
demonstrate the fact that he only was the person to be gazed at—the
incident, the feature, the sensation of the time—though the little man
resisted not. He had yielded to his fate, sulkily, it may be, but
submissively. Pale was the little man’s face—most pale; while his hat
was generally crumpled in its circumference, and particularly smashed in
the details of its crown, having the look, abused hat, of being typical
of its owner’s fortunes—an emblem, as it were, of the ups and the
downs, the stumbling-places and the pitfalls wherewith its owner’s way
through life is diversified. He had a coat, too—though this simple fact
cannot be alluded to as distinctly characteristic—most men wear coats
whose aspirations go beyond the roundings of a jacket. But our little
man’s coat was peculiar—“itself alone,” speaking of it merely as a
coat. There were two propositions—either the coat did not belong to
him, or else he did not belong to the coat—one of these must have been
true, if it were proper to form an opinion upon the usual evidences
which go to settle our impression as to the matter of proprietorship in
coats. The fitness of things is the great constituent of harmony in
coats, as in all other matters; but here was a palpable violation of the
fitness of things, a coat being a thing that ought always to fit, or to
come as near to that condition as the skill of the tailor or the
configuration of the man will allow. It may possibly be that mischance
had shrunk the individual’s fair proportions, and had thus left his
garments in the lurch—the whole arrangement being that of a very small
kernel in an uncommonly extensive shell. It may be mentioned also in the
way of illustration, that the buttons behind were far below their just
and proper location—that its tails trailed on the ground; while in
front, the coat was buttoned almost around its wearer’s knees—not so
stringently, however, as to impede progression, for its ample
circumference allowed sufficient play to his limbs. Thus the little man
was not only grim, and queer, and sorrowful, but was also picturesque
and original. There was at least nothing like him to be seen that day,
or any other day; and, as he walked, marvelous people held up their
hands and wondered—curious people rubbed their eyes and
stared—sagacious people shook their wise heads in disapproval; and
dubious people, when they heard of it, were inclined to the opinion that
it must be a mistake altogether, and “a no such thing.” A boy admiringly
observed that it was his impression that “there was a good deal of coat
with a very small allowance of man,” like his grandmother’s pies, which,
according to his report, were more abundantly endowed with crust than
gifted with apples; as if the merit of a pie did not consist mainly in
its enclosures. To confess the truth, it might as well be candidly
granted at once, that but for the impediment of having his arms in the
sleeves, the little man might have turned round in his coat, without
putting his coat to the inconvenience of turning round with him.
The case—we do not mean the coat, but the case, in general and
inclusive—offered another striking peculiarity. In addition to the
somewhat dilapidated pair which already adorned his pedal extremities,
the little man, or Mr. Peter Faber—for such was the appellation in
which this little man rejoiced, when he did happen to rejoice,—for no
one ever was lucky enough to catch him at it—Mr. Peter Faber carried
another pair of boots along with him—one in each hand—as if he had
used precaution against being sent on a bootless errand, and took the
field like artillery, supplied with extra wheels. But it was not that
Mr. Peter Faber had feloniously appropriated these boots, as ill-advised
persons might be induced to suppose. But each man has his
idiosyncrasy—his peculiarities—some trait which, by imperceptible
advances, results at last in being the master-passion, consuming all the
rest; and boots—an almost insane love of boots—stood in this important
relation to Mr. Peter Faber. In happier days, when the sun of prosperity
beamed brightly on him, full of warmth and cheeriness, Peter Faber had a
whole closet full of boots, and a top-shelf full of blacking—in boxes
and in bottles—solid blacking, and that which is diluted; and Peter
Faber’s leisure hours were passed in polishing these boots, in admiring
these boots, and in trying on these boots. Peter knew, sadly enough,
that he could not be regarded as a handsome man—that neither his face
nor his form were calculated to attract attention as he passed along;
but his foot was undeniably neat—both his feet were—and his affection
for himself came to a concentration at that point.
Some men there are who value themselves upon one quality—others may be
discovered who flatter themselves on the possession of another
quality—each of us is a sort of heathen temple, with its peculiar idol
for our secret worship. There are those who pay adoration to their hair.
Whiskers, too, have votaries. People are to be met with who attitudinize
with their fingers, from a belief that these manual appendages are
worthy to be admired, because they are white or chance to be of the
diminutive order. Many eyes have double duty to perform, that we may be
induced to mark their languishing softness or to note their sparkling
brilliancy. To smile is often a laborious occupation to those who fancy
they are displayed to advantage in that species of physiognomical
exercise; and there are persons of the tragic style, who practice
frowning severity in the mirrors, that they may “look awfully” at times.
Softnesses of this kind are innumerable, rendering us the most
ridiculous when most we wish to please. The strongest have such folly;
and the weak point in Peter Faber’s character lay in his foot. Men there
are who will make puns, and are yet permitted to live. Peter Faber
cherished boots, and became the persecuted of society! Justice is blind.
On the previous night, in the very hours of quietness and repose, there
came a strange noise of rattling and bumping at the front door of the
respectable house of the respectable family of the Sniggses—people by
no means disposed to turbulence themselves, or inclined to tolerate
turbulence in others. It so happened, indeed, on this memorable
occasion, that Sniggs himself was absent from the city; and the rest of
the family were nervous after dark, because his valor had temporarily
been withdrawn from their protection. Still, however, the fearful din
continued, to the complete and terrified awakening of the innocent
Sniggses from the refreshment of balmy slumber. And such a turmoil—such
hurrying to and fro, under the appalling influence of nocturnal alarm.
Betsy, the maid of all-work, crept in terror to the chamber of the
maternal Mrs. Sniggs. Betsy first heard the noise and thought it
“washing-day,” but discovering her mistake, Betsy aroused the matron
with the somewhat indefinite news, though rather fearful announcement,
that “they are breaking in!”—the intelligence, perhaps, being the more
horrible because of its vagueness, it being left to the excited
imagination to determine who “they” were. Then came little Tommy Sniggs,
shivering with cold and fear, while he looked like a sheeted ghost in
the whiteness of his nocturnal habiliments. Tommy and Betsy crawled
under the bed that they might lie hid in safety. Nor were Mary and
Sally, and Prudence and Patience slow in their approach; and they
distributed themselves within the bed and beneath, as terror chanced to
suggest. Never before had the Sniggs family been stowed away with such
compactness—never before had there been such trembling and shaking
within the precincts of that staid and sober mansion.
“There it goes again!” shivered Mrs. Sniggs, from beneath the blankets.
“They’re most through the door!” quivered Betsy, under the bed.
“They’ll take all our money!” whimpered Prudence.
“And all our lives, too!” groaned Patience.
“And the spoons besides!” shrieked Mary, who was acting in the capacity
of housekeeper for that particular week.
“Pa!” screamed Tommy, under the usual impression of the juveniles, that
as “pa” corrects them, he is fully competent to the correction of all
the other evils that present themselves under the sun.
“Ma!” ejaculated the others, seeking rather for comfort and consolation,
than for fiercer methods of relief. But neither “pa” nor “ma” seemed to
have an exorcising effect upon the mysterious bumpings and bangings, and
pantings, and ejaculations at the front door.
In process of time, however, becoming a little familiarized to the
disturbance, Mrs. Sniggs slowly raised the window, and put forth her
nightcapped head, it having been suggested that by possibility it might
be a noise emanating from Mr. Sniggs, or “pa” himself, returning
unexpectedly.
“Who’s there?” said Mrs. Sniggs.
“Boots!” was the sepulchral reply.
“Is it you, dear—you, Sniggs?”
“If you mean me by saying you, it is me—but I’m not ‘dear’—boots is
‘dear’—Sniggs, did you say? Who’s Sniggs? If he is an able-bodied man,
send him down here to bear a hand, will you?” and another crash renewed
the terrors of the second story, which sought vent in such loud and
repeated shrieks, that even the watchman himself was awakened, and
judiciously halting at the distance of half a square, he made his
reconnoisance with true military caution, concluding with an inquiry as
to what was the matter, that he might know exactly how to regulate his
approaches to the seat of war. An idea had entered his mind that perhaps
a ghost was at the bottom of all this uproar; and though perhaps as
little afraid of mere flesh and blood as most people of his vocation, he
had no fondness for taking spectres by the collar, or for springing his
rattle at the heels of a goblin, holding it—the principle, and not the
ghost—as a maxim that if such folks pay no taxes and are not allowed to
vote, they are not entitled to the luxury of an arrest; for the
ordinances of the city do not apply to them.
“Even if it is not a ghost nor a sperrit, and I’m not very fond of any
sort of sperrits but them that comes in bottles,” said he, having now
approached near enough to hear the knocking and to see a dark object in
motion at the top of Mr. Sniggs’s steps; “perhaps it’s something out of
the menagerie or the museum—something that bites or something that
hooks; and I cannot afford to have my precious corporation used up for
the benefit of the city’s corporation. The wages is too small for a man
to have himself killed into the bargain.”
“But maybe it’s a bird,” continued he, as he caught a glimpse of Peter’s
coat-tail fluttering in the wind. “Sho-o-o-o!”
But no regard being paid to the cry, which settled the point that there
was no bird in the case—“sho-oo!” being a part of bird language, and
only comprehensible by the feathered race—the watchman slowly advanced
until he saw that the mysterious being was a man—a little
man—apparently leveling a blunderbuss and pulling at the trigger.
“Who said shoe, when it’s boot?” inquired the unknown figure, still
seemingly with a gun at its shoulder, and turning round so that the
muzzle appeared to point dangerously at the intruder.
“Halloo! don’t shoot—maybe it will go off!” cried the watch, as he
ducked and dived to confuse the aim and to avoid the anticipated bullet.
“Don’t shute! I know it, don’t shute—that’s what I want it to do—I’m
trying to make it shute with all my ten fingers,” was the panting reply,
as the apparently threatening muzzle was lowered for an instant and
raised again—“and as for its going off, that’s easy done. What I want,
is to make it go on.”
Luckily for Charley’s comfort, he now discovered that the supposed
blunderbuss was Peter Faber’s leg, and that the little man had it
leveled like a gun, in the vain attempt to pull a Wellington boot over
that which already encased his foot. He sighed and tugged, and sighed
and tugged again. The effort was bootless. He could not, to use his own
words, make it “shute.” The first pair, which already occupied the
premises, would not be prevailed upon to admit of interlopers, and
Peter’s pulling and hauling were in vain.
It was the banging of Peter’s back against the front door of Mrs.
Sniggs’s mansion that had so alarmed the family; and now as he talked,
he hopped across the pavement, still tugging at the boot, and took his
place upon the fire-plug.
“Pshaw!—baint it hot!” said Peter. “Drat these boots! they’ve been
eating green presimmings. I guess their mouths are all drawed up, just
as if they wanted to whistle ‘Hail Kerlumby.’ They did fit like nothing
when I tried ’em on this morning; but now I might as well pull at the
door-handle and try to poke my foot through the key-hole. My feet
couldn’t have growed so much in a single night, or else my stockings
would have been tore; and I’m sure these are my own legs and nobody
else’s, because they are as short as ever and as bandy. Besides, I know
it’s me by the patches on my knees. That’s the way I always tell.”
“Are you quite sure,” inquired the watch, “that you didn’t get swopped
as you came up the street? You’ve got boot, somehow or other. But come,
now,” added he authoritatively, and putting on the dignity that belongs
to his station, “quit being redickalis, and tell us what’s the meaning
of sich goin’s on in a white man, who ought to be a credit to his
fetching up. If you’re a gentleman’s son, always be genteel, and never
cut up shindies or indulge in didoes. What are you doing with them ’are
boots? That’s the question, Mr. Speaker.”
“Doing with my boots? What could I do without my boots, watchy?” added
Peter, in tones of the deepest solemnity, as he laid his boots upon his
lap and smoothed them down with every token of affection. “Watchy,
though you are a watchy, you’ve got a heart with the sensibilities in
it—nothing of the brickbat about you, is there, watchy? If you are ugly
to look at, it’s not your fault, and it’s not your fault that you’re a
watchy. I can see with half an eye that you’re a man with feelings; and
you know as well as I do that we must have something to love in this
world—you love your rattle—I love my boots—better nor they love me,
I’m afraid,” and Peter grew plaintive.
The watchman, however, shook his head with an expression of
“duberousness,” which, like the celebrated nod of Lord Burleigh, seemed
to signify a great deal relative to the thoughts existing within the
head that was thus shaken. It vibrated, as it were, between opinions,
oscillating to the right, under the idea that Peter Faber was insane
from moral causes, and pendulating to the left with the impression that
he was queer perchance from causes which come upon the table of liquid
measure.
Peter’s thoughts, however, were too intent upon the work he had in hand
and desired to get on foot, to pay attention to any other insinuation
than that of trying to insinuate his toes into the calf-skin. Sarcastic
glances and nods of distrust were thrown away upon him. He asked no
other solace than that of bringing his sole in contact with the sole of
his new boot. On this his soul was intent.
“It’s not a very genteel expression, I know,” said the nocturnal
guardian, “and it may seem to be rather a personal insinivation, though
I only ask it in a professional way, and not because I want to know as a
private citizen—no, it’s in my public campacity, that I think you have
been drinking—I think so as a watchman, not as David Dumps. Isn’t you a
leetle corned?”
“Corned! No—look at my foot—nor bunioned either,” replied Peter, as he
commenced another series of tugging at the straps; and with a look of
suspicion, he added, “That tarnal bootman must have changed ’em. He’s
guv me some baby’s boots. But never mind—boots was made to go on, and
go on they must, if I break my back a driving into ’em. Hurra!” shrieked
our hero, “bring on your wild cats!”
With this exclamation—which amounts with those who use it, to a
determination to do or die—Peter screwed up his visage and his courage
to what may be truly denominated “the terrible _feet_,” and put forth
his whole strength. Every nerve was strained to its utmost tension; the
tug was tremendous; but alas! Cæsar was punctured as full of holes as a
cullender, by those whom he regarded as his best friends; many others
have been stuck in a vital part by those who were their intimate
cronies, and how could Peter Faber hope to escape the treachery by which
all great men are begirt? When exerting the utmost of his physical
strength, the traitorous straps gave way. Two simultaneous cracks were
heard; a pair of heels, describing a short curve, flashed through the
air, and Peter, with the rapidity of lightning, turned a series of
backward somersets from the fire-plug, and went whizzing like a wheel
across the street. Now the half-donned boot appeared uppermost, and
again his head followed his heels, as if for very rage he was trying to
bite the hinder part of his shins, or sought to hide his mortification
at his failure, not only by swallowing his boots, but likewise by
gobbling up his whole body.
“Why, bless us, Boots!” said the Charley, following him like a boy
beating a hoop, “this is what I call rewarsing the order of natur. You
travel backerds, and you stop on your noddle. I thought you was trying
to go clean through the mud into the middle of next week. A’n’t you most
knocked into a cocked hat?”
“Cocked fiddlesticks!” muttered Peter. “Turn us right side up, with
care. That’s right—cocked hat, indeed! when you can see with half an
eye—if you’ve got as much—it’s my boots vot vont go on. A steam
engine—forty horse power—couldn’t pull ’em on, if your foot was a
thimble and your legs a knitting-needle. Don’t you see it was the straps
as broke? Not a good watchy!” continued Peter, as he dashed the boots on
the pavement, and made a vain attempt to dance on them, and “tread on
haughty Spain.”
“Well, now, I think I am a good watchy; for I’ve been watching you and
your boots for some time.”
“What’s a man if he a’n’t got handsome boots; and what’s the use of
handsome boots, if he a’n’t got ’em on? As the English Gineral said,
what’s beauty without bootee, and what’s bootee without beauty? Look at
them ’are articles—fust I bought ’em, and then I black’d ’em, and now
they turn agin me, and bite their best friend, like a wiper. Don’t they
look as if they ought to be ashamed?”
“Yes, I rather think they do look mean enough.”
“Who cares what you think? Have you got a boot-jack in your pocket?—no,
not a boot-jack—I want a pair of them ’are hook-em-sniveys, vot they
uses in the shops. I don’t want a pull-offer; I want a pair of
pull-on-ers.”
“If you’ll walk with me, I’ll find you a pair of hook-em-sniveys in less
than no time.”
“If you will, I’ll go, because I must get my boots on somehow, and
hook-em-sniveys will do it if anything will. There’s no fun in boots
what wont go on; you can’t make any thing of ’em except old clothes-bags
and letter-boxes, and I a’n’t got much use for articles of the
sort—seeing as how clothes and letters are scarce with me.”
“Can’t you use ’em for book-keeping by double-entry? That’s the way I
do. I put all my cash into one old boot, and all my receipts into the
other. That’s scientific double-entry simplified,—old slippers is the
Italian method.”
“No, I can’t. I does business on the fork-out system. I don’t save up,
only for boots; and as soon as I gets any money, I speculates right off
in something to eat, and lives upon the principal.”
Peter gathered up his boots, and half reclining upon the watchman,
wended his way to the common receptacle, where, after discovering the
trick played upon him, and finding that the “hook-em-sniveys” were not
forthcoming, he shared his wrath between the boots which had originally
betrayed him, and the individual who had consequently betrayed him. At
length,
“Sweet sleep, the wounded bosom healing,”
restored Peter to himself and that just estimate of the fitness of
things, which teaches that it is not easy—even for a man who is as
sober as a powder-horn—to pull a pair of long boots over another pair;
particularly if the latter happen to be wet and muddy. Convinced of this
important truth, Peter put his boots under his arm, and departed to get
the straps repaired, and try the efficacy of hook-em-sniveys where the
law could not interfere.
And such was the close of this remarkable episode in the life of the
grim little man and the queer little man, whose monomania had boots for
its object.
* * * * *
THE IDIOT BOY.
There is a lowly mountain home
That nestles near a clear blue stream,
A shady nook—a fitting spot
For pilgrim rest, or poet’s dream.
Two tall elm trees their branches fling
Across the humble roof-tree there
While fearlessly the robins sing,
And woodland flowers perfume the air.
Not ten yards from the cottage door
A rocky wall the streamlet meets,
And wildly, quickly dashing o’er
With its rude song the valley greets.
While far and wide the glittering spray
Like showers of diamonds fill the air,
The golden sunbeams with them play
And arch the beauteous rainbow there.
A shelving rock, like semi-bridge,
From the rude bank hangs jutting o’er,
While round the rough and frowning ridge
Twine moss and vine and creeping flower.
A winding pathway, near the stream,
Leads to this wild and dizzy height;
Once gained the waters flash and gleam
Like jewels on the gazer’s sight.
Beyond, the hills, in robe of green,
Mount upward to the calm blue sky,
While at their feet the silver sheen
Of a broad river meets the eye.
Here in this cot, a space below,
A widow dwells in silent grief,
Earth has no balm to sooth her wo,
No magic song, no healing leaf.
Long weary years have slowly fled
Since death first filled her home with gloom.
Numbered her husband with the dead
And traced for her a widow’s doom.
One sunbeam there, one ray of joy
On that low cottage shed its light,
A fair-haired child, an idiot boy
Was to her heart like stars to night.
I’ve seen a vine, a fragile vine,
When strong support had failed,
Around a weaker cling and twine,
Till drooping both in dust they trailed.
I’ve seen a lonely captive find
Sweet solace in his hours of grief,
Yea food for heart, and thought for mind,
In a frail plant—one pale green leaf.
From the damp earth in his lone cell
It sprung to life, sad life awhile,
But there, alas! it could not dwell,
No sunshine shed its cheering smile.
’Twas tended well mid hope and fear,
And watched with all a parent’s care,
Yea, watered daily with a tear,
But could not stay in darkness there.
So in this cot that idiot boy
Was like that leaf to captive sad,
His guileless ways, and childish joy,
Oft made the broken-hearted glad.
Beside him she on earth had nought,
For him all labor, love and prayer,
And he no other playmates sought,
Save birds and flowers, sunlight and air.
Speech was denied him, and not one
Save she who gave him birth alone
His uncouth gestures e’er could read,
Or learn his sorrows, joy or need,
And as, amid the quiet sleep
Of summer noon, a storm will sweep
In sudden wrath, and blackness cast
O’er skies serene a moment past;
So in the spirit of this child
Dark passion, fitful, quick and wild,
Such inward storm would sometimes wake,
Naught but her gaze its power could break;
Her words could bid its fury cease,
The _mother’s voice_ could whisper peace.
Not often thus, but the long hours
Of summer day mid birds and flowers
He’d cheerful spend, or watch the spray
Of dashing waves in their wild play.
And this, indeed, his chief delight,
When airs were bland and skies were bright.
So fixed his gaze, you wondered why,
A child should look so earnestly.
It seemed as if he longed to be
A wave amid those waters free.
His thoughts we know not, but perchance
Some spirit dream was in that glance!
Such as when reason leaves her throne
And fancy reigns supreme alone,
Will lead the helpless captive on
To deeds we fear to think upon.
Some thought as strange, some wish as wild,
We deem possessed this idiot child.
One day he climbed the pathway, where
The rocky bridge seemed hung in air;
Awhile he looked with strange delight
On sparkling wave and rainbow bright;
Then, with a scream so wild and shrill
It made the distant hearer thrill,
He plunged amid those waves and foam,
Like Naiade seeking its lost home.
A moment, and it all was o’er—
He sunk, to rise with life no more.
A schoolboy saw but could not save
The idiot from his watery grave.
Few were the mourners, and some there
With hard heart said, “the widow’s care
Would now be less,” yea, thought that she
From a great burthen thus was free.
Ill judging ones! ye could not know
The depth of that fond mother’s wo.
He surely was not loved the less
Because of his great helplessness—
Nor can we in our weakness tell
He was not loved by God as well—
The smallest bird and flow’ret share
His holy watch and daily care.
That broken link in Nature’s chain
May after death unite again.
The fettered mind! Ah! who can tell
What mysteries in that casket dwell,
When God, alone who holds the key
Shall set the darkened captive free?
One gleam of that electric thought,
Which beauty out of chaos wrought;
One touch of that creative hand
Which loosed prime Nature’s iron band,
To feeblest mind can give the power
On seraph’s wing to mount and soar.
We know not but the soul that lay
Like folded flower in feeble clay,
May open beneath purer skies,
And, fanned by airs of Paradise,
May bloom in beauty fresh and fair
Amid the richer glories there.
E. P.
* * * * *
YOUTHFUL LOVE.
BY ALICE G. LEE.
“Child no longer. I _love_, and I am Woman!”
When first thy face blent with my youthful dreaming,
I loved thee fondly, madly, e’en as now;
Yet to a mossy bank, with careless seeming,
I pressed a woman’s heart, a girl’s young brow.
I did not dream that thou couldst ever love me,
One that was fondled as a very child!
But as the glorious stars that beamed above me,
I worshiped thee, with love as deep and wild.
Then bending low, thy face was by my pillow:
A kiss was pressed upon my burning cheek—
As floats a flower upon the foamy billow,
Uprose my heart, and yet I could not speak.
I sat beside thee in that pulseless hour,
And gazed into the cloudless vault above.
I learned that o’er thy heart was cast the power—
E’en as on mine—the fatal spell of love.
Unto my soul it came a torrent rushing,
And brought wild thoughts unknown to it before.
Bright hopes and dreams within thy heart were gushing
Of joys the future held for thee in store.
I only knew that, seated now beside thee,
My hand lay trembling, nestling in thine own;
I only felt thy dear voice did not chide me—
Oh, how I treasured every careless tone.
Another hand in fancy thou wert pressing;
Another voice fell softly on thine ear:
And looks of love came—with a low-voiced blessing—
From beaming eyes, that memory brought _so near_.
While thoughts of a bright meeting on the morrow
Had chased a transient shadow from thy brow—
Unto my heart came the first thrill of sorrow;
An omen of the weight it beareth now.
We parted: I those mournful thoughts to smother
Within a breast till then unknown to care.
I knew thou lovedst only as a brother—
A sister’s love I had no wish to share.
In that short hour I had lived many years;
And now, alas! must share the common lot—
The lot of woman—suffering and tears;
While yet a child to those who knew me not.
The wreath of Fame e’en then for thee was twining;
High aspirations urged thee proudly on:
The light of love upon thy path was shining,
A dear hand would be thine when fame was won.
I bade God speed thee; though my heart was breaking
My pale cheek flushed beneath thy parting kiss—
Hope from my soul a final leave was taking—
_The future hath no trial worse than this_.
* * * * *
SONNET FROM PETRARCH, ON THE DEATH OF LAURA.
TRANSLATED BY ALICE GREY.
Where is the brow that, with the slightest sigh,
Moved my fond heart, its most devoted slave?
Where the fair eye-lid, and those stars divine,
Which to my life its only lustre gave?
Where is the worth, the wise, accomplished mind;
The prudent, modest, humble, sweet discourse?
Where are the beauties which, in her combined,
So long of all my actions were the source?
The shadow of that gentle countenance
To which the weary soul for rest might flee?
And where my thoughts were written; where is she
Who held my willing life within her hands?
Alas! for the sad world! alas! for my
Still weeping eyes, that never shall be dry.
* * * * *
A CHAPTER ON EATING.
PART I. (THE PHILOSOPHY AND USES OF EATING.)
BY FRANCIS J. GRUND.
Brillat Savarin, the immortal author of “The Physiology of Taste,” among
his axioms has the following: “_Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai
qui tu es._” (Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you who you are.) If
any one doubt the truth of this remark, or has the least objection to
it, he must not read my essay; for I judge him utterly incapable of
understanding what follows. It was an equally wise saying of Sir John
Hunter, that man was what his stomach made him; but he did not carry his
investigations far enough. He had reference to the capacity, and, in
case of damage, to the recuperative faculty of the stomach, and did not
take into consideration the gentle persuasions of the palate—the sense
which is slowest of development, but the most faithful companion of old
age. The worthy Englishman had drawn his inferences from the stomachs of
the livery and aldermen of London; and his beau ideal, in this respect,
was no doubt the stomach of the Lord Mayor. But turtle and venison,
though excellent things in themselves, are not the only criterion of
rank, fashion, and capacity, though they _are_ the necessary
concomitants of magisterial dignity. Brillat Savarin went much further;
he classified men according to their dinners; judging thereby of their
tastes, their accomplishments, their refinement, and their scientific
pursuits. There is, indeed, no function that man performs in common with
the beasts, in which he differs so widely from the brute creation, as in
eating, which led Brillat Savarin to another not less important axiom:
“_L’animal se repait, l’homme mange, l’homme d’ésprit seul sait
manger_,” (which, translated into elegant English, means, animals feed,
man eats, but the man of education and refinement alone knows how to
eat.)
The savage merely wants his meat coagulated—civilized man wants it
_cooked_; but it requires taste to discriminate between gravies. Gravy
is to meat what dress is to man, or rather woman; it not only hides
deformities, but sets off and enhances beauty. It dissolves the
dissonance which might otherwise exist between boiled and roasted into
harmony; it establishes the balance of power between the joints and the
_petits pieds_. Talk of man, in his savage state, appreciating gravy; or
the man without refinement discriminating between a common _sauce aux
capres_ and one _aux truffes_, or _au vin de champagne_! Men, in
civilized countries, have immortalized themselves by gravies; and
Very—I mean the old man, not his son, who has done nothing in the world
to entitle him to respect, except marrying a pretty woman, who never
peeled a mushroom—has made gravies with which, as Puckler Muscau said,
“a man could eat his grandfather!” The prince, being of half royal
descent, meant by his grandfather the beau ideal of toughness.
But I must not shoot ahead of my argument. I am to show that we, in this
country, lay too little stress on what we eat—do no justice whatever to
cooks, and thereby deprive ourselves of a vast deal of enjoyment that
would not interfere with our neighbors. A man who tells you he does not
care what he eats, might just as well tell you he does not care with
whom he associates. You may depend on it that man cannot appreciate
beauty. To him one woman is just as good as another—prose just as good
as poetry—the sound of a jews-harp equal to that of a harpsichord.
Avoid that man, by all means, or your associations will become vulgar,
your taste corrupted, and your appreciation of beauty and elegance as
dull as a pair of cobbler’s spectacles.
But there are those who boast of caring naught for a good dinner. They
are so etherial, scientific, or Spartan-like, as to be just as well
satisfied with a piece of beef as with a pair of canvas-backs. Well,
what does it mean? Might a man not, for as good a reason, boast of his
blindness, and his stoic indifference as to the color of woman’s eyes,
or the incarnation of her cheeks? Might he not as well boast of liking
the smell of tobacco as much as that of a rose or a violet? The man who
has no taste, has only four senses instead of five, and is therefore
defective in organization. What notion has he of a _sweet_ face, a
_sweet_ disposition, or a _sweet_ voice?
Taste may be _cultivated_ as much as every other sense. The man who has
never exercised his eyes, cannot be a judge of painting, of statuary, or
of architecture. The man who has not cultivated his ear, will not easily
distinguish between the harmony of Mozart and the tuning of the
instruments, which set a musician’s _teeth on edge_; and a man who has
not practiced his sense of touch, will take no more pleasure in taking a
lady’s hand, than in handling her glove. Would, can, ought, a lady to
give her _hand_ to such a man?
But there is yet another still more remarkable philosophical
consideration, which ought to induce us to investigate this subject.
What we eat assimilates with us, becomes our own flesh and blood,
influences our disposition, our temper, and consequently our amiability.
Every living thing in nature longs for incarnation, aspires to become
human—to move from its apogee to its human perihelium. But the lord of
creation makes his selection; he consults his _taste_, and admits but
few of the aspirants to his intimacy.
Nothing but want is an excuse for bad living—for not restoring
ourselves in the best manner possible. Only think that every seven years
we are made entirely new! Our whole frame is consumed, and new particles
of matter accrue in place of the old ones, during that period. Then to
reflect that we are made up of half boiled potatoes, raw meat, and
doughy pie-crust! The very thought of it is enough to lower our
self-respect, and to diminish very sensibly the regard we owe to others.
It is intended by nature that we should have taste—that we should
_select_ our food and make it palatable. The infinite variety of plants
and animals subject to the human stomach, testify to the superiority of
man. Without the power of assimilation, what sympathy could there exist
between him and the rest of Creation? To say we are fond of trout, of
grouse, of venison, is but another way of expressing our affection for
fish, bird, and deer. What would these animals be to us if we did not
eat them? What we to them? And does not our love often partake of the
same characteristics? Do we not frequently crush that which we tenderly
press to our bosoms?
The Germans have a terrible idiom for expressing the highest paroxysm of
affection. They say “they love a woman well enough to _eat_ her.” The
idea is monstrous; and yet can it be denied that the greatest intimacy
imaginable is the identity produced by assimilation. The idea, in spite
of its apparent coarseness, is purely transcendental. And is not the
converse of this principle admitted by all civilized nations? What do
the terms “distasteful,” “disgusting,” “nauseating,” “sickening,”
signify? What else but that these things do not agree with our stomachs?
there are no stronger similes in the English language. Mark the climax;
“distasteful,” referring to the tongue; “disgusting,” having reference
to the palate; “nauseating,” applying to the throat; and “sickening,”
proceeding, _ex profundis_, from the stomach! Here you have the whole
gamut of human pathos—in which the stomach is, after all, the
key-note—the heart being nothing but the sounding-board.
Even knowledge borrows its terms from the stomach. Our scientific
acquisitions are “_crude_” and “_undigested_,” when they have not been
systematized; and a man is “raw,” when he has neither tact or experience
in the common pursuits of life. One half of our vocabulary is taken from
the palate and the stomach—the milky-way of that microcosm of which man
is the universe. Nor have we as yet properly watched that wonderful
economy of nature, by which we are constantly consumed and
restored—those unceasing pulsations between life and death, which, when
undisturbed, are the cause of so much enjoyment. We watch the heavenly
bodies, we rejoice over the discovery of a new planet, or an asteroid;
we espy comets, and endeavor to account for their movements and
perturbations, while a much more wonderful process is going on every day
before our eyes, without exciting our astonishment. How comes it that
the stomach, out of the most heterogeneous matters treasured up in it,
is daily preparing flesh, bones, brains, the enamel of the teeth, the
horny substance of the hair and nails, &c.? Can any philosopher explain
how the particles of inanimate matter are vivified and thrown from the
womb of life—the stomach—into circulation, to perform with the blood
those rapid revolutions which mark our existence, and bear such a close
analogy to the revolution of our planet round the sun? We look for
wonders to the stars, and are a living wonder ourselves—a microcosm
much more astonishing and interesting than all above and beneath us. The
stomach is the great laboratory of the world, and yet how indifferent
are the greater part of mankind to the gentle affinities of that much
abused organ! We cultivate a good appearance—a healthy complexion—a
clear eye, handsome teeth, and all that, but entirely neglect the gentle
admonitions of that organ which alone can impart these virtues. Men talk
of hereditary blood; but of what possible use is it without an
hereditary good stomach? Give me a good stomach, and the blood will
follow as a matter of course.
We talk of improving the breed of cattle, of horses, sheep, &c. But how
is it done? By what other principal means than by improved feeding, and
taking care that nothing shall interfere with the proper digestion of
the improved food. You may use every possible means of improving the
breed, without improved feeding the race will degenerate. And so it is
with man. Whole nations, as, for instance, the English, wear a better
aspect than others, merely because they are better feeders. Meat-eaters
have generally a more florid complexion, and, on an average, a greater
development of brains. They are, usually, not easily wrought; but when
excited, “perplexed in the extreme;” and as slow to back out of as they
are to commence a fight. We imagine these qualities inherent in the
race; but they are the offsprings of the stomach, and nothing else.
Change the diet of that nation, and she will soon lose her
distinguishing characteristics. And so it is with certain classes of
society. Why is the mob of England cowardly? Because it is badly fed.
Increase the wages of the laboring man so that he can obtain beef once a
day, and no soldiery in the world will be able to cope with him. He
would soon show symptoms of animation; he would, in very characteristic
language begin “to feel his oats.” Nothing is equal to the contempt
which well-fed people have for those who are badly fed. The former are
called respectable, the latter are thought capable of any mischief that
can be conceived of. _Pauper ubique jacet._
Between the stomach and the highest faculty of our souls there is a very
close connection, though men have vainly endeavored to disprove it.
Heavy food, which calls for undue action of the stomach, paralyzes, for
a time at least, all mental action, and destroys the highest power of
the mind—imagination. By gentle stimulants, however, we may increase
both—provided we are temperate. You see better with a spy-glass than
with the naked eye, provided you do not draw it out beyond the proper
focus. Again; good cheer promotes cordiality, friendship, benevolence,
and charity. Only the highest paroxysm of love is capable of triumphing
over the stomach. But how long does it last? And does it not, in the
end, warm itself at the chemical fire of good cheer, or die for the want
of it? Love does very well during the hey-days of the blood; while the
stomach, with its even sway, governs until death, with a power which
increases as it goes on. Every passion fades as we pass the meridian of
life, or dwells only in that great faculty of the soul, reminiscence,
until that even becomes palsied by the gnawing tooth of time; but the
sensitiveness of the palate increases—a regular gourmandizer scarcely
existing before the age of forty. Our taste becomes matured with our
judgment; when reason waits upon the tender passions, they have already
flown. Every other passion has a regular rise and fall, and a
culmination point, the pleasures of the palate alone are fixed and
immovable as the eternal stars in the firmament. The fiery youth may
“sigh like furnace,” and make “ballads to his mistress’ eyebrow,” and
man “may seek the bubble reputation even at the cannon’s mouth;” but the
sober _justice_ is “_capon lined_;” he is the only sensible person among
them, and guards against the _bowels_ of compassion, by that
completeness about the region of the stomach which is generally received
as _prima faciæ_ evidence of good nature. The Chinese—the oldest
civilized people on earth—require that their justices should be _fat_;
and the popular idiom of our own language corresponds to it; for we
expect from a judge, _gravity_ of deportment, and sedate manners. Lean
men seldom inspire the confidence which fat men do. “I wish he were
fatter,” says Cæsar, of Cassius; for a man who feeds well, and grows
fat, has given “hostage to fortune.” Corpulency, like marriage, being “a
great impediment either to enterprise or mischief.”[1]
There is yet another reason for conceding the ascendancy of the palate
over the other organs. The palate and the stomach have had more to do
with the establishment of civil liberty than is even suspected by those
who have neglected this important study. The custom for magistrates to
feed their clients, is as old as the Roman empire, and has been
preserved in all civilized countries. Our Saxon and Anglo-Saxon
ancestors were accustomed to do every thing important over a dinner; and
to that circumstance, as Alderman Walker, of the English metropolis,
very justly remarked, must be ascribed the preservation of English
liberty, as contradistinguished from that of France. A people,
accustomed to civic festivals, will not easily be reduced to slavery.
Good cheer enlivens our attachment to the country, enhances patriotism,
and calls for those expressions of sentiment which I look upon as the
main pillars of liberal institutions. And if public liberty is
consolidated by public feastings and Lord Mayors’ dinners in England,
where the people only partake of the good cheer, by a liberal
construction of the constitutional charter, that is to say, through
their legal _representatives_, how much more conducive to public liberty
must be those public dinners in _our_ country, where people enjoy the
privilege of assisting in person at the banquet! Instead of hearing the
herald proclaim, “Now the Lord Mayor is helping himself to turtle—now
the Lord Mayor has commenced upon venison—now the Lord Mayor drinks to
the queen!” they themselves eat the turtle, the venison, and drink
success to popular governments;—with this difference only, that they
have less patriotic _cooks_—cooks who, in most cases, have scarcely an
interest in common with those to whose patriotism they minister. This is
radically wrong, and ought to be looked to. If our Fourth of July
dinners have somewhat fallen into disrepute with the fashionables, it
is, I trust, not from a want of patriotism on their part, but on account
of the atrocious manner in which some of them are prepared. Let venison
and turtle, or if these be out of season, the best that the market
affords abound, and the _beau monde_ of our Atlantic cities will excuse
the sentiments for the cook’s sake, and wash them down with Champagne
and Madeira!
The custom to invite men whom we respect and honor to a public dinner,
is as old as the hills, and ought to be carefully handed down to our
children. No higher distinction ought ever to be claimed by our public
men, and none granted. Political feasts are the highest _stimulants_ to
action I know of—but in order to ensure their success, an act of
Congress ought to prohibit set speeches, and _impromptus_ prepared for
the occasion. The awkward manner of taking public men by surprise, was
strikingly exhibited in the speech of Lord Brougham, at a dinner of the
members of the National Institute, which began thus: “_Non-accoutumé que
je suis à parler en publique_,” and extorted some smiles even from the
furrowed countenances of the French savants. The reading of written
addresses, concealed under the plate during dinner, for the purpose of
being let loose after the cloth is removed, is a breach of hospitality,
and ought to be voted a nuisance; but the greatest latitude might,
without danger to public safety, be allowed in regard to toasts,
especially when they refer to the Eagle, who from his royal toughness
has nothing to fear from the barbarism of the cooks. By the by, English
writers and reviewers need not feel so squeamish about “that Eagle,” as
“the British Lion” is quite as tough, if not more so, and when he is
finished, there still remains the Unicorn, as a _corps de reserve_. They
have two beasts to our one; neither of which is fit to be exhibited in a
drawing-room.
Dinners serve scientific and artistical purposes quite as well as they
do political ones. Every learned society of England has its annual
meetings, at which a public feast is prepared for its officers and
members. Turtle and venison are the only means of bringing the members
together, just as the suppers at our Philadelphia Wistar parties season
the scientific conversation of our own men of learning, and render their
entertainments more attractive and _cheerful_. Dinners and suppers act
as the attraction of cohesion among members of the same family. Why
should they not promote a feeling of fraternity among men of science and
literature?
The practice of patronizing literary men and artists by dining them,
has, it is to be regretted, not yet been generally adopted in this
country. In England and France it is quite common; but since the
remuneration of artists exceeds all bounds in the latter country, the
artists, in turn, invite their patrons. There is no better means of
spreading useful information than these interchanges of hospitality.
Knowledge in general is dry,[2] and would have few votaries if the
stomach did not act as interpreter between the learned and the tyro. At
table you may bring the most opposite characters together, and they will
agree—as long as they are eating—on most subjects, provided they are
but half bred. The elective affinity of viands and gravy, mushrooms and
truffles, will establish harmony among them, which may last even for an
hour after dinner; but at tea you must be careful. All beverages are
deceptive, and are rather apt to exhibit differences than to equalize
them. A true diplomat will press you to drink; but he will seldom taste
any thing but ice water and lemonade.
What important part the stomach plays in diplomacy, is known to the
whole world. Napoleon, when sending the _Abbé de Pradt_ to Poland, gave
him no other instruction than this: _Tenez bonne table et soignez les
femmes_, (keep a good table and take care of the women.) I wonder
whether the late administration gave similar instructions to Colonel
Todd, when it sent him to St. Petersburg! Our ministers abroad may take
care of the women, after a fashion, but I defy them, unless they are
rich, to keep a good table.
It is a vulgar error to suppose that ladies are most attractive at a
ball. I prefer to see a woman at dinner. The dinner is the touchstone of
her attractions. If she be graceful and agreeable there, she will be so
in every position in life, and you may say of her what Napoleon said of
Josephine: _elle a de la grâce même en se couchant_. It was whimsical
affectation in Lord Byron to pretend that ladies ought not to eat at
all. A woman who has no appetite, or is indifferent as to the manner of
gratifying it, is but a poor companion for life, whose good nature and
agreeable temper will scarcely last through the honey-moon. Byron had in
his mind’s eye an English woman, who breakfasts on chops and dines on
raw joints, which is detestable. But fancy an artistically arranged
_salle à manger_, a _partie quarrée_, (two ladies and as many gentlemen)
at breakfast, and the servants handing round _côtelettes à la
Maintenon_, (little lambs’ ribs that look as innocent as new-born babes,
artistically set off and coupled with historical associations of the
golden age of French literature!) and you have quite another picture.
Then the _abandon_ which follows the little cup of Mocca—the sallies of
wit and humor—the little attractions of graceful hands and mouths, and
fine teeth—the flow of conversation, and the embarrassing intervals and
flaws filled up with wine! Then the dessert, which ought never to fail,
even at breakfast,—flowers decorating the table, and the women as in
the Hesperian garden, touching the forbidden fruit! There you see woman
in all her grace, and in all the attractions of her sex,—calm,
collected, dignified, observing, listening and perhaps—consenting. What
is a ball in comparison? Ladies and gentlemen do not move as
ballet-dancers, and make at best but an impression inferior to the
latter. Their dilettantism in that respect is no better than that of
music, compared with regular performers. At breakfast and dinner, a
woman may study attitude, and remain longest in those which are
attractive. At the ball-room, she is hurried along, and depends for
success on her partner. A clumsy, ungraceful partner in a dance, is
enough to ruin her—comparisons will wound her pride—she is agitated,
angry, and it is only the queen of a ball who enjoys it and is capable
of giving pleasure. At dinner, you possess a woman altogether to
yourself,—the impressions which you receive and make are lasting, and
you are, by the pleasant occupations of the table, prepared to _relish_
them. You cannot become intimate with a woman unless you have taken a
meal with her. And then how many thousand opportunities you have of
showing your attention, your being captivated by her charms—how much
_resignation_ you can practice in entertaining her! The impressions made
at dinner are indelible; those of a ball are evanescent, for you do not
receive them in a proper state of mind, and forget them after a night’s
rest. The dance deranges a woman’s toilet, makes her gasp and pant for
breath, and is apt to exhibit those faults which a skillful toilet would
have concealed, and which we would have been happier in not knowing.
Ladies after a dance look like victims that have been tortured; and oh!
gentle reader, may you never have the misfortune to be behind the scenes
at a ballet! The first _ballerina_, after the greatest storm of
applause, looks then but like a fallen angel scourged by furies. No, no!
give balls and routes to boys and girls. A sensible man scorns at that,
and takes it as no mark of respect for him to be invited to them. Let me
lead the woman I fancy to dinner, and give me an hour’s conversation
with her afterward, in the boudoir, and I will gladly resign meeting her
in a crowd. Let the cook but half do his duty, and I will not be
deficient in mine.
A word, before I part, to the Blue Stockings—(I would _whisper_ it if I
could do so in print)—It’s very well to quote Shakspeare, and Byron,
and Milton, (whom nobody reads,) and Mrs. Hemans, who had much better
written sermons. But if you want to acquire a lasting reputation, and
choke off envy and detraction, have an eye to your cook. The most
fastidious critic would sooner forgive a misquotation than the want of
seasoning in a favorite dish. As much literary reputation may be
acquired by dining literary men, as by imitating or plundering their
writings.
-----
[1] I hope that in a chapter on eating I may quote “Bacon.”
[2] “Gray, my friend, is all Theory, and Green the Tree of life,” says
Mephistophiles to the student, in Goethe’s Faust.
* * * * *
MORNING INVITATION.
BY THE PRIVATE SCHOLAR.
Let us go to the dewy mountain, love,
’Tis the time of the Maying weather;
The lark is up in the blue above,
The thrush in the briery heather;
From the cottage elm the robin calls—
List, love, to the gentle warning—
We’ll away to the mountain waterfalls,
And drink the dew of the morning.
Let us go to the tangled greenwood fair,
The scented buds invite us;
The young red deer will gambol there,
And a thousand songs delight us.
Thy hand in mine, and mine in thine,
In the wood-path we will linger,
Where the dew is bright on the eglantine,
As the jewel on thy finger.
Let us go to the moor and the virgin lake—
I hear the call of the plover;
And the fisherman’s song comes over the brake,
With the perfume of the clover.
A bonny boat with a pennon gay,
Like a nymph on the blue is sleeping—
To the fairy lake, oh, let us away,
While the sun from the hills is peeping.
Let us go to the upland airy lea,
Where the silent flocks are browsing;
We’ll pass the dale where the honey-bee
His early store is housing.
Our path shall lead through the meadow lane,
Its daisy blooms will meet us;
And the reed-pipe strain on the distant plain,
With the herd-boy’s song will greet us.
Let us go abroad at the early dawn,
With the blue sky bending o’er us;
While the mingled music of grove and lawn
Goes up in a grateful chorus;
For sweet is the breath of the morning, love,
And sweet are the opening flowers;
And sweet shall our communion prove,
In the fields and woodland bowers.
Let us go while Nature’s holy strain,
O’er the joyous earth is pealing;
My pulse has caught its youth again,
And throbs with the rural feeling.
Each bird, and brook, and dripping bud,
Invites with a gentle warning;
Then let us away to the field and wood,
And drink the health of the morning.
* * * * *
A PRAYER.
BY MRS. C. E. DA PONTE.
Weary of earth, and tossed
Amid the storms which ever wreck my way,
Thou who canst save the wretched and the lost,
O hear me pray.
Weary of time, which brings
Little of comfort to my bosom now,
Feeble and worn, to Thee my bosom clings,
To Thee I bow.
Deep is the inward strife,
Thou knowest consumes my sick and weary soul,
Deep is that grief still agitates my life,
Beyond control.
Here joy is o’er,
Earth cannot soothe, for life can nothing give,
Take me, then, Father, to that mighty shore,
For Thee I’ll live.
Watch me where’er I go,
Guide my faint footsteps through this valley drear;
Father, I weep with more than mortal wo,
But yet can bear.
* * * * *
THE LOYALIST’S DAUGHTER.
A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
BY P. HAMILTON MEYERS.
(_Concluded from page 274._)